


ABANDONED | Aronnax In The Abyss

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Cardassia, Cardassian Anatomy, Cardassians, Cultural Differences, F/M, Intrigue, M/M, POV Julian Bashir, POV Third Person, Plot, Spies & Secret Agents, Vulcan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: THIS WORK ABANDONED.Please check out the rewrite of the same name, linked in the notes and inspiration.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Aronnax In The Abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627830) by [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites). 



> New version of Aronnax In The Abyss is [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13627830)

“There’s a Vulcan trading vessel incoming, Doctor Bashir, and they’ve been hit hard. Part of their hull plating blew apart – electrical burns and air deprivation are the main problems. Estimated thirty injured with moderate to serious injuries, ETA twelve minutes.” Kira’s tone is clipped and sharp, and Julian nods even though she can’t see him.

“Got you,” Julian replies to Kira over the comm link, and when the line goes quiet, he snaps into action. Ordering the other doctors to ready beds and get into place, he moves swiftly down the length of the medical wing, putting things into place – thirty people is a lot for a sudden intake, but he’s ready.

Or, at least, he thinks he is.

It actually takes less than twelve minutes for them to start arriving into the medical bay – members of security beam those injured directly into the infirmary, and Julian barely takes notice of anything around him.

When he’s thrust into situations like this, everything around him dims to darkness. Julian sees nothing, hears nothing, _feels_ nothing except his medical duties: he takes pulses, asks short, pointed questions and does diagnostic tests, and as best as he can, he does what he’s been trained for – he heals.

“Who’s this?” he asks crisply of the last patient to be brought into the room; a broad-shouldered man lays her on a bed. She’s a Vulcan woman perhaps some way into her fifties, and there’s a deep laceration across side of her scalp, baring thick, green ooze that has soaked into her dark hair. He runs his tricorder over her, frowning deeply – as a nurse draws a dermal regenerator over the cut, he takes in evidence of something a little more severe.

Most of the injuries had been easily healed – the crew is primarily Vulcan, with only a Caitian and an Orion creating any extra diversity in the medical practices, and Vulcans are an especially hardy race who aren’t injured too easily. Unfortunately, this woman had been crushed by something, and Julian reads evidence of a rather severe spinal injury, which was not likely helped by her being moved.

“This is Captain T’ran, of the merchant ship Aronnax.” Julian glances up from the tricorder, setting his jaw, and he freezes. Immediately, the dozens of streams of thought running side by side through his genetically-improved mind screech to a halt, and his eyes widen slightly. The man speaking – the man who’d carried the Vulcan commander – is a Cardassian. He has a heavy, black bruise blooming on the side of his chin, and his leftside brow ridge is cut to the bone, bleeding purple-blue down his face.

“Right. You should sit down,” Julian says. The Cardassian doesn’t move, staring stonily at Julian. A heavy drop of blood drops from his cheek onto the fabric of his tunic. The haze of medical focus has been popped like a balloon, and although his concentration isn’t entirely broken, he is… Distracted. Why would a Cardassian have been on a Vulcan merchant vessel? “Look- The captain has serious injuries. These can’t be easily fixed with a dermal regenerator. You need to be looked at yourself – Doctor N’daya—“

“I will remain here, Doctor. Our ship’s databanks were partially destroyed, and you’ll have need of her medical history.” the Cardassian says lowly, and he settles slowly into the chair beside the bed. “Captain T’ran suffers a severe allergy to penicillin, for example.”

“Doctor N’daya,” Julian says crisply, forcing himself to concentrate as much as he can, “Look after this man here, will you?”

The best he can, he sets himself to work.

 ---

“Major Kira,” Julian says several hours later, quietly into his own comm link. The Cardassian, whose name is Jasek, is sat very straight beside T’ran’s bed. The Vulcan woman is laid out on her belly, and a yellow strip of softly shining fabric is laid over the length of her spine. “First Officer Jasek, of the Aronnax, is here in the infirmary.”

“The Cardassian?” Kira asks, tone slightly biting. “What’s the problem?”

“He’s exhausted,” Julian says, his hand going up to his brow and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I need him out of here, but he won’t leave. T’ran is going to be unconscious for several days while the damage to her spine is repaired – she’d be in too much pain, even as a Vulcan.”

“So tell him to leave.” Julian sighs. He considers telling Kira that he _has_ told the man to leave, three times now, and has been ignored each time. He doesn’t want to call _security_ on him, but-

“Doctor,” Odo says, stepping over the threshold of the Infirmary, and Julian mutters a quick, “Bashir out,” before turning to the door. Odo looks up and down the infirmary – the Caitian is lying unconscious, breathing steadily as his ribs are knitted back together, and the rest of the crew are all gone. “How is the condition of Captain T’ran?”

“She’ll be unconscious for several days, Odo, you can’t talk to her right now. That’s her second in command, there.”

“Jasek,” Odo says, with some apparent familiarity as he takes a few steps forward, and the Cardassian glances to him. “I need to ask you some questions about what happened on the Aronnax, sir.”

“With respect, Constable Odo, my—“

“Your wife is unconscious. She will be unconscious for several days. Your crew has need of you.”

“His wife?” Julian repeats, and Jasek takes in a soft breath. It’s only now that Julian looks at him, actually looks at him and thinks critically – Jasek is maybe fifty or sixty, and he’s tall, broad-shouldered with a rather narrow waist, and he isn’t wearing the Cardassian armour Julian expects, or the big, square garments he sees on Garak. Jasek is wearing a Vulcan tunic, the Chinese collar adjusted for the shape of his long, ridged neck, with his blue blood dried into the thick, yellow fabric. Jasek is wearing Vulcan boots, made of some rubbery material made from trees, and he has two woven bracelets around his wrist that don’t look anything like Cardassian materials. He’s a Cardassian, sure, but he’s wearing Vulcan clothes.

“Very well,” Jasek says, reluctantly, and he stands. He’s a very tall man, over six feet tall, but he moves with a slight rigidity on his left side, and immediately Julian freezes, his gaze going to the Cardassian’s knee, but before he can say anything, Jasek says, “An old injury, Doctor. Psychosomatic, so my wife insists.”

“I’ll inform you of her condition if it changes,” Julian says. Guilt flushes through him; he’s coming to the end of his ship, but fatigue is no excuse – he’s an absolute _genius_ , and he’d noticed next to nothing about this man. “I’m- I’m sorry, I, er- I didn’t realize-“

“Thank you, Doctor,” Odo interrupts him, and he puts his hands neatly behind his back, walking from the room with Jasek in his wake. Despite his limp, he moves quite fast, and Julian glances back to T’ran on the bed. She’s obscenely still, and laid on her belly with her back bared to the air, her breathing is barely visible, although her life signs are obvious on the monitor.

Julian’s never heard of Cardassians marrying _any_ other species, and Vulcans- well. Vulcans marry outside their species, of course, but with Humans or Orions or Betazoids… Not _Cardassians_.

 ---

Garak is already in Quark’s when Julian comes in for lunch the next afternoon. He leans back in his seat, sipping very leisurely at a fragrant, steaming tea that Julian hasn’t seen him drink before. Julian follows his gaze to a mirror, which reflects a window across the bar, which, in turn, reflects the form of Jasek seated at a table, examining the multiple PADDs stacked in front of him. With his right hand, he holds a Vulcan ink pen, and he writes neatly on soft, cream-coloured parchment.

“Making friends?” Julian asks, slipping into the seat across from Garak, Garak’s blue eyes meet Julian’s, and Julian doesn’t see curiosity in them, but something else. Anger? No… Garak looks almost _territorial_.

“I think _not_. Why should I want to be friends with a disgraced Cardassian, cast out from the Empire?” Julian frowns slightly, examining Garak with interest, and then he turns his head, looking directly at Jasek up on the balcony. “He’s been here all night, Quark tells me.”

“Does Quark often feed you information?” Julian asks, before adding, “Is that why you wanted to meet here instead of the Replimat? So you could watch him the whole time?”

“Are you not curious, Doctor?” Garak asks, adjusting his grip on his mug and bringing it to his mouth. He doesn’t sip from it, though – he just inhales, his nostrils flaring slightly, and not for the first time Julian wonders what it must be like to smell with a Cardassian nose. He likes the twitch of the nose’s ridge. “Jasek was exiled from Cardassia some forty years ago – he served in the military for a time, and was forced to resign his commission after an injury. Some say it was self-inflicted. But then, three years later, he left Cardassian space entirely, without permission at all from the Imperial Command. And married an _outsider_.”

“Do Cardassians not believe in relationships with outsiders?” Julian asks, and Garak’s gaze locks with his. Garak’s lips twitch, as if Julian has said something significant, and for a little while he doesn’t turn to glance at Jasek in the mirrors.

“ _Perhaps_ , my dear doctor, but hardly marriages. And Vulcan marriages, at that! They have _children_.”

“He’s got two bracelets on his arm,” Julian says quietly, and says, “They look handwoven.” Do Vulcan children weave bracelets, as Human children sometimes do?

“Ah, you _see_ ,” Garak murmurs, amused. “You can pay attention, hmm? But just _look_ at him. Vulcan clothes, Vulcan boots, Vulcan _children!_ He’s forgotten Cardassia quite entirely.” He seems so _angry,_ so incensed. Julian can’t truly find out much about Cardassia, given how difficult it is to get hold of real, unbiased information, but he’s always intrigued when Garak becomes passionate about one Cardassian tidbit or other – though he never can know for certain if the spy is telling the truth or not. “What do you think of him?”

“I think he loves his wife,” Julian says. He doesn’t know why he says it precisely like that, but the words come softly out of his mouth: it just seems so out-of-character for a Cardassian to be so focused on another person, let alone someone outside their species, but he hadn’t left her side for hours, even knowing she wouldn’t wake up. “I didn’t realize they were married  until Odo came in.”

“Chief Constable Odo and Jasek are, of course, _acquainted_.” Garak sips his tea, and he catches the eye of a Ferengi waiter, waving him over to take their lunch orders. “And Odo never forgets a face.”

Jasek shifts in his seat, and Julian gets a look at his eyes from under the shadow of his eye ridges; the bruise on his chin, which he hadn’t allowed the medical staff to take care of, is being broken down from black to an obnoxious lilac. His eyes are watering slightly, a sign Julian recognizes as one of fatigue – he hasn’t slept, Julian realizes, since he arrived on the vessel.

“And what would you like to order, Doctor Bashir?” The Ferengi prompts him, not, judging by his slightly impatient expression, for the first time.

“Oh,” Julian says distractedly, and he turns his head reluctantly from the Cardassian for a few moments. By the time he looks back, Jasek is gone. Julian frowns, furrowing his brow, but Garak smiles like an angry dog.

“Jasek, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t realize there were other Cardassians aboard,” Jasek says. He stands beside Julian’s chair, his PADDs stacked neatly under one of his arms, and Julian’s fast gaze runs quickly over the parchment paper in Jasek’s hand. A letter of condolence – none of the crew that had gotten to the Infirmary had died, but fourteen crewmembers had died onboard the Aronnax before they had a chance at being saved.

“ _Other_?” Garak repeats in an innocent fashion with his eyes wide, his tone saccharinely sweet, and Julian feels the distinct urge to step on his foot under the table, but Garak would only make a scene about it rather than taking the hint like someone else might do.

“Garak owns a tailor’s here on Deep Space Nine, Mr Jasek,” Julian says. Jasek looks to Julian, making eye contact with him, and Julian says in a quieter voice, “I _will_ let you know if her condition changes, sir.” Jasek shifts his head, and his neck moves in the odd, reptilian fashion that Cardassians have, even under the high Vulcan collar; Vulcan clothes are much tighter and formfitting than the armour-like wear of most Cardassians Vulcans has seen, and Julian’s medical curiosity is more than piqued at the shape of Jasek’s body. Cardassian physiology remains something of a mystery, but just the square shape of his torso, lacking a dip at the waist one might see in a Vulcan or a Human, and with the ridges just slightly visible under the soft fabric, is a clue Julian hasn’t had before.

Jasek looks back to Garak, meeting his icy gaze, and for a long few moments they stare each other down. Back on Earth, there had been a few feral cats on the campus of Starfleet Academy – they were kept healthy, but allowed to keep to themselves, and were often friendly with different members of the campus corps. Julian had seen, once or twice, the stand-off between two cats as they stared each other down and refused to blink, slowly raising their hackles and arching their backs, until one lost their nerve.

It’s Jasek who looks away first, but Garak seems _irritated_ rather than pleased at his victory.

That seems to be a theme with Garak.

“I will see you, Doctor Bashir,” Jasek says, with a polite bow of his head: even the way he holds himself reminds Julian more of the Vulcans than Cardassians – it’s stiff and measured, and while he has a heavy sense of grace, it lacks the reptilian slink that Cardassians usually have.

Julian watches after him as he goes, with mild curiosity, and then he turns back to Garak. Garak’s jaw is set, his lips pursed together, and he is watching Julian with an _alarming_ intensity.

“What, Garak? Are you jealous?”

“I would be careful, Doctor,” Garak murmurs, softly. “If you’re not careful, you might become friends with the _wrong_ sort of people.”

“You might well be right,” Julian says in an equally quiet voice. “What do you think happened? Odo said there was a hull breach, but it was more than that – it was an explosion. It was an attack on the ship.” Julian had listened to Odo’s debriefing about it this morning to the command staff – he suspects the Maquis, thus far, but Julian won’t tell Garak _that_. But why would the Maquis try to attack a Cardassian that had been exiled for so many years?

“There are many reasons one might wish to kill anyone on the ship, my dear,” Garak murmurs. “But the investigation ought reveal the truth. A version of it, at least.” The Ferengi waiter Garak likes – Mag – comes over with their food, and Garak changes the subject to more innocuous.

Julian remains distracted, however.

The Aronnax must have been attacked for _some_ reason, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’ve examined the wreck in some detail,” Odo says, looking up from his PADD with a neutral expression on his moulded features. Julian glances around the table, at Jadzia, at Sisko, at Kira and Miles, and remains silent. “From what I can extrapolate from our investigation, the damage was triggered by an explosive device hidden within the lining of the ship’s hull, and was discovered by an engineer and mistakenly set off. Had the young man not discovered it, it would have gone off upon docking procedure.”

“And we were scheduled as the Aronnax’s next port?” Sisko asks, arching an eyebrow as he glances up from his PADD: Odo gives a curt nod.

“I suspect the Maquis,” Odo says cleanly. Julian worries the inside of his lower lip, drumming his fingers on the underside of the table so no one will see him fidgeting, just as they won’t see the bounce of his knee. “It would be in their best interests to frame a Cardassian – Mr Jasek, who has been exiled for so long, could easily be believed as someone attempting to win back the favour of the Empire by causing damage to the station. The ship’s log reveals contacts with those who could potentially have been Maquis.”

“But- Constable,” Julian says. Everyone is staring at him, and while he doesn’t feel as self-conscious as he might once upon a time, he’s more used to Deep Space Nine now, and if arguing with Garak has given him anything, it’s boosted confidence in his opinions. “They came from Ferenginar, and you know what Ferengi are like: for all the gold-pressed Latinum in the world, it wouldn’t be worth it to help some disgraced Bajorans.” Kira’s head snaps towards him. “No, no, Major- I’m just saying it as the Ferengi would see it. Even if Jasek would be a fall man of sorts, why would Ferengi help? And they’d have mentioned in their reports if they’d seen anyone out of the ordinary on planetside.”

Odo presses his not-lips together, leaning back in his chair and considering what Julian has said. His fingers brush his own chin.

“You have an alternate theory, Doctor?”

“No,” Julian says, awkwardly. “I just don’t think the Maquis make sense.” Odo scowls at him. “Have you told Mr Jasek your theory, Odo?”

“It is not my custom, Doctor, to tell every potential suspect what my theories might be.”

“You do it with Quark!” The meeting does not go well after that.

Julian is off-duty today, barring the command meeting, and he’s glad to be free from work: he knows full-well that for the time being, he’d be lacking in the necessary bedside manner to practise. He lingers on the Promenade, looking through the window into Garak’s shop: he’s leaning gracefully back in his chair, to the side of his desk, and there’s a softly shimmering fabric laid across his lap that seems to ripple like water. From this distance, Garak can’t sense Julian watching him, and he’s utterly focused on his needle as he stitches a sleeve into place by hand: it’s sort of beautiful, watching him work with so much certainty, so much easy finesse.

Julian has met a great many doctors in his life, at the Academy, at Starfleet outposts, and in many places on Earth, throughout the galaxy – he’s met people who approached medicine in so many different ways, but those he was always most envious of were those who could approach medicine with _dignity_ , with a sort of inherent poise.

He only ever spares a thought toward elegance when he sees Garak work, but that doesn’t make him less jealous. There’s something else there, in the distracted whorl of thought and emotion, the implication of an emotion that Julian doesn’t want to feel right now – and he’s looked too long.

Garak has sensed him, and he glances up from his work, giving a cursory glance to his shop’s door before he looks through the window and sees Julian standing there, on the opposite side of the Promenade. Garak watches him for a moment, and then he smiles, lifting up a hand in a wave.

Plain, simple Garak, with no inhuman instincts at all.

Julian returns the wave, uncertain and hyperaware of his own gracelessless (but how is he meant to compete with a Cardassian anyway?) and he walks hurriedly across the room, dipping down a corridor. He taps his fingers upon his leg, thinking about the meeting as he makes his way, unthinking, towards the habitat ring.

Perhaps he has moved this way unconsciously, or perhaps he knew on some level what he was to do, but he recalls the number of the room Jasek is temporarily renting, and he makes his way toward it, through the winding halls of the ring. He taps the buzzer, and he waits in silence for the longest time (and yet he knows it’s only seconds) outside of Jasek’s room.

Jasek’s doors open, and the Cardassian stands in the doorway, looking at Julian impassively. It is at this moment, with an uncomfortable certainty, that Julian realizes that Jasek hasn’t smiled at him, or at Garak, or at anybody, _once_ in his time on Deep Space Nine. Perhaps that oughtn’t be surprising for a man whose wife is taking up a space in the infirmary, but Cardassians constantly smile – they smile to be sarcastic, to be cruel, to be happy, seductive, angry… It’s their _default_.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Jasek,” Julian says. Behind him, he sees the flicker of Jasek’s meditation flame, and he realizes he has interrupted what is likely a nightly ritual – just as it is for Vulcans. “I’m not here to update you on T’ran’s condition – I wondered if I might ask you about your time on Ferenginar?” He tries to keep himself straight-backed and professional, but the dry heat from the room radiates outwards in a way that makes it difficult to retain composure – is this heat more like Cardassia or Vulcan?

“I have already updated your Chief of Security as to such information,” Jasek says. His voice is quiet, but perfectly enunciated – Julian wonders, for a moment, if his UT is translating the tuts and sibilant sounds of Vulcan, or the plosives and hard “k” sounds of Kardasi, and then he wonders if it matters. “I assume you have alternate lines of inquiry.” Jasek steps back, allowing Julian entrance. “Come.”

Julian follows Jasek inside, and when Jasek takes his position on his knees, Julian sinks to the ground across from him, seating himself cross-legged and looking at the Cardassian over the open flame. He feels the heat sink under his uniform, making him sweat, but he does his best not to show it. It turns out it isn’t a candle – it’s a traditional meditation lamp that hovers an inch over the grey carpet, and it looks to be hand-carved.

“I’ve lived on Vulcan for over thirty years, Doctor,” Jasek says, and Julian looks up from the lamp, staring at him. What is it about Cardassians and being able to read minds? They’re not even meant to be a telepathic people. “You seem surprised that I have assimilated.”

“With respect, sir, it doesn’t seem in the Cardassian nature to assimilate.” For a moment, there is silence, and then Julian hears the crackle of Jasek’s low, rumbling laugh. The soft, beige fabric of his robe shakes with his amusement, and Julian stares at him, his lips parted slightly in pure surprise.

“T’ran once told me the same thing, some weeks before we got married,” Jasek’s smile is warm, and it comes easily to his face. Suddenly, he looks three times as Cardassian as he had before. “Come, make of me your inquiries.”

“Odo suspects the Maquis of sabotaging the Aronnax,” Julian says, laying his hands loosely in his lap. “The idea being that they’d make Starfleet believe you’d wanted to destroy Deep Space Nine, so that you could weasel your way into the good books of the Cardassian High Command, but it just didn’t make sense to me. I mean, of all the people to pick – I know you’re a Cardassian, but like you said, you’ve been on Vulcan for over three decades, and I read your file: they gave you _citizenship_ on their planet, and Vulcans don’t do that for anyone who isn’t completely naturalized and assimilated.”

“I’ve not heard a question yet, Doctor,” Jasek says, and Julian feels a rush of blood in his cheeks.

“Uh- I wanted to ask if you remembered anything out of the ordinary on Ferenginar. Cardassians have photographic memories, don’t they?” Jasek’s lip twitches with amusement, and he arches one of his eyeridges.

“Do they? I had no idea.”

“They’re trained into you, from childhood. I know Odo wouldn’t have suggested this, because he’s- well: I was just thinking that if you meditate every night, like Vulcans do, and obviously you’re mediating now, this morning, and you have the photographic memory, can’t you, um- that is to say-“

“Could I focus myself upon my own memories, combing through them for forgotten details, and examine evidence of non-Ferengi interference?” Jasek’s expression is even more impossible to read than most Cardassians’ as he tilts his head just slightly to the side, and Julian is struck by the abrupt urge to blurt out an apology, but then Jasek neatly inclines his chin. “An interesting thought.” Jasek’s left hand hovers beside the lamp, turning it to the side. “One, I confess, that I had not considered.”

“Wow,” Julian says. “Admitting you didn’t think of something doesn’t seem very Cardassian _or_ Vulcan.”

“An expert in both, are you?”

“Oh, in neither,” Julian says immediately, and Jasek chuckles before the laugh slowly melts away from his mouth. He closes his eyes, his expression changing to one of complete impassivity, and he coaxes the lamp up between his palms. The flame dims slightly, and behind his closed eyes, Julian sees the shift of Jasek’s eyes, searching.

He’s observed Vulcan meditation rituals in the past, and he’s observed Jadzia at times – he’s read about all manner of different meditations, of course, but he can’t help but wonder at the differences here. There are so many gaps in his knowledge of Cardassian physiology, but this is something different again – the Cardassian psychology is a complex one, Julian is sure, even with the bits and pieces of bare information he’s managed to draw together, but the idea of Cardassian meditation is a completely novel concept.

As Jasek takes in measured, even breaths, Julian examines him – he’s wearing a robe Julian would usually expect of a Vulcan dressed for bed, one that wraps over his chest and comes down in a steep V. Julian can see every separate ridge on each side of his neck, as well as the grey, rough flesh of his chest.

He has a large, spoon shaped crest where his sternum must be, like the one on his forehead, but bigger, and with a less pronounced curve to it. He can see the shape of ridges under the soft fabric of his robe, and he realizes, in a sudden, ridiculous rush of information, that Cardassians might not have nipples.

Vulcans have nipples. Humans have nipples. Ferengi have nipples, and Bolians, and Tellarites – Caitians have up to ten nipples each! Do Cardassians?

Does Garak?

“We were on Ferenginar for a little over a week, but as we came through Cardassian space, there was some damage to our hull – a piece of meteorite loaded with materials that disrupted our shields. One of the Ferengi, not one of the engineers who assisted us, but a salesman from the agora-” Julian frowns slightly, wondering why the translator had chosen _that_ word. “Mentioned that in the past weeks, a Cardassian had been in the area. I didn’t bother paying him for further information, but I heard the name in the background of some conversation or other… Denor. Gul Denor.”

Jasek’s smile is subtle, and it reminds Julian of Garak’s more superior, sarcastic smiles.

“Did you excel at the Academy, Doctor? What was it that made you choose medicine?”

“Mr Jasek?”

“The way you combine ideas, young man: you know little of Cardassian memory or Vulcan mental organisation, and yet you thought of the two in complement of each other. Even my own children struggled with such a concept, and they themselves were borne of Cardassia and Vulcan in coalescence.” _So he does have children_ , says an inner voice of Julian’s that sounds uncomfortably like Garak. Jasek’s smile widens slightly, and he adds, “One might have thought an aptitude test would suggest you apply for a command role.”

“I always wanted to be a doctor,” Julian says. He stares at Jasek, searching the old Cardassian’s face, and Jasek chuckles.

“Ah, the determination of youth.” Jasek leans back on his heels, and he says, “You may bring this information back to Odo. I would speak with him myself, but…” Jasek shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t care to.”

“You don’t like him?”

“On the contrary,” Jasek says easily, “I became acquainted with Odo a little before I left the Empire, and he and I… Get on.” He stares Julian in the face, and says, “I don’t wish for his particular mode of repartée for the time being. Odo has never been permitted his own culture, Doctor, but he dislikes outliers. He no more understands the choice I have made than he understands a tasting tongue.”

Julian stands, giving a short nod of his head, and Jasek watches him. Julian guesses that he has some question to ask, but when it comes, it’s unexpected.

“You and the tailor – Garak. How long have the two of you been involved?”

“Involved?” Julian repeats. “We’re not- we’re not _involved_.”

For the barest moment, Jasek looks surprised. The expression passes across his features like a fleeting ghost, and then Jasek says, “My apologies, Doctor. Evidently I misunderstood.” Julian nods his head, and as he goes toward the door, Jasek adds, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr Jasek,” Julian says, and he lets the doors of Jasek’s rooms close shut behind him as he leaves.

 ---

T’ran wakes the following evening.

She struggles to speak, pain overpowering her body, and then Julian brings a hypospray to her neck, and she lets out a soft sigh. Her eyes flit around the Infirmary, and Julian mutters an order for one of the nurses to call Jasek in from his room.

“Please, don’t move, Captain T’ran,” Julian says, holding up his tricorder. “You’re in a lot of pain, I know, but it’s because of a spinal injury – it needs some more days to heal. Your ship was-“

“What is the status of my crew?” T’ran’s voice is clean and low. Her black hair is tied messily in a bun behind her head, and it seems all the more out of place, contrasting with her Vulcan features and unemotive voice.

“Fourteen dead, Ma’am. Some serious injuries were also sustained, but yours was the worst.”

“The Aronnax?”

“I think the necessary repairs are well underway now.” T’ran is silent for a long few moments. Julian has never known a Vulcan to hesitate. “Your husband is currently staying in the habitat ring here on the station – he’s on his way.” T’ran’s grey eyes flit to Julian, examining him, analysing him, _judging_ him.

“My thanks, Doctor,” T’ran murmurs, and it’s then that Jasek all but sprints into the room. He skids to a halt before T’ran: he’s barefoot, wearing soft, brown trousers and a plunging, green wrap – he must be _freezing_ in the comparatively cool atmosphere of Deep Space Nine, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Julian watches him put out his hand, his index and middle finger outstretched, and T’ran does the same, pressing her fingers to him. T’ran’s eyes close shut as she keeps her hand to Jasek’s, continuing the contact of the Vulcan kiss, and Jasek says, “She’s still in pain.” Julian’s head whips toward her, and he grabs another hypospray.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“My wife is strong,” Jasek answers lightly, and T’ran presses her lips together, otherwise not changing her expression at all, and she doesn’t flinch when Julian presses the next hypospray to her neck.

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Julian takes out a PADD, noting down some readings from the tricorder, and T’ran says, “For how long will I be constrained to this infirmary bed, Doctor?”

“At least another few days, Captain,” Julian says, rather more sternly than he intended the words to come out. “But for now I can’t even let you sit up.”

“It could be worse, my darling,” Jasek says. “You could be dead.”

“Were you not speaking Vulcan, Jasek, I would worry for my translation matrix. How is it that you have spoken this language for so long and confused the words for “worse” and “better?” Vulcan, then. Could Garak tell, before, that Jasek was speaking Vulcan instead of Kardasi? Did he have a new accent, perhaps?

“Feisty as a le-matya, though thankfully not so ugly,” Jasek says affectionately, and Julian turns away to note down a few more readings. It makes him almost uncomfortable, the ease with which they flirt together – he has just been thinking of grace and finesse, and here are a Vulcan and a Cardassian, showing exactly that with one other. He feels he is intruding, but he can’t exactly flee for the moment.

When Doctor N’daya takes over from Julian’s shift, he’s grateful to leave, and for whatever reason, he goes directly to Garak’s shop.

Garak’s doors proclaim that the tailor’s is closed for business, but they’re not yet locked, and Julian steps inside. He examines Garak from behind as the Cardassian pretends not to know he’s there, and he says, “Up for a drink in Quark’s?”

Garak, dramatic as he is, goes so far as to _gasp_. “My dear _doctor_ – when did you get here?”

“Please,” Julian says, and Garak turns to look at him. His grey lips frown.

“Give me one moment, my dear, and we can go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short update.

Garak walks silently beside Julian – uncomfortably silently, in fact. When Garak sneaks up behind him, Julian doesn’t pay it any heed, but when they’re walking together like this he becomes hyperaware of his clothes shifting against each other, of his bootsteps on the ground, of the click his pips make together when he turns his head.

Silence radiates from Garak like a spicy scent, and when he catches Julian looking at him, he raises his eye ridges in question.

Julian looks away and walks faster.

They sit down on one of the observation decks in Quark’s (Julian doesn’t want to be anywhere near the noise of the dabo tables), and Julian orders a colourful, sweet cocktail that prompts a stare from Garak. He’s not truly scandalized: he just likes to make the appearance of it, now and then.

“What is it, my dear?” Garak asks, softly.

“It’s just- look, alright, I know that it shouldn’t matter to me, and I’m a doctor, and I myself have been in all _manner_ of mixed relationships, but- The way they _are_ together. They just- they seem so incompatible, but they mix so well!” Garak’s expression is unreadable. He examines Julian with apparent interest, but his features betray nothing more, and when Mag brings their drinks, he takes a sip from his watered-down kanar. Julian takes a big gulp of his cocktail, and stares at the surface of the table. “And I don’t care about your stupid opinions about how he’s not Cardassian enough anymore or- or what-have-you. I just… I don’t _understand_ why I feel like this. I feel like I’m intruding whenever I’m within the room with them.” Garak’s left eye ridge rises imperceptibly, but his expression is otherwise neutral. “And I know, I _know_ that I’m babbling, because I always do that in situations where I’m uncomfortable and I don’t mind saying it because I know you know and you probably make note of it whenever I do it and the thing is, I don’t understand why anyone would do this to them of all people anyway just because he’s a Cardassian, just because he’d be a—Unless it was personal, obviously, but given how upset _you_ are that kind of… Makes sense…”

Julian stares, wide-eyed, at the shining surface of the table. He holds his cocktail glass very tightly.

When he dares to glance up, Garak is smiling at him softly – fondly.

“What?” Julian demands, archly.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing at all,” Garak murmurs, his blue eyes sparkling with something that is definitely _not_ “nothing”. Julian’s eyes drop to the precise shape of Garak’s lips: they’re quirked into a slight smirk, a slight shine on the blue-grey flesh from the overhead lights, and Julian thinks about Jasek asking, “How long have you and the tailor been involved?”

“Garak,” Julian says, very lowly.

“Yes?” Garak’s teeth show when his mouth opens – they’re sharper than human teeth, but not as obviously as a Klingon’s or a Ferengi’s, and his tongue is a deep purple.

“You did something.”

“Did I?”

“You—You _implied_ something to Jasek, something I didn’t notice.” Julian wants to keep watching Garak’s mouth, but he tears his gaze away and meets Garak’s eyes, leaning over the table slightly, so that they’re closer. Garak mirrors him, as is his wont, and there’s half a foot between them; Julian can smell the slightly spicy scent of whatever it is Garak uses in his hair, and a softer, soapy scent from his clothes.

“Prove it,” Garak whispers. His eyes are unblinking. Julian’s are too.

“I don’t need to,” Julian murmurs back. “I was in his quarters-“ Garak’s nostrils flare, and his lip curls momentarily. “And he asked how long we’d been involved. What did you do?”

“I don’t believe I admitted to doing anything.”

“It was subtle, or I’d have noticed it. And, Garak, we are _not_ involved.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No.”

“I thought as much.”

“But you still-“

“I didn’t do a thing.” Garak’s tone is more dangerous now, with a slight edge to it. It’s not defensive – it’s more like a challenge, and Julian feels the want to yell in frustration. Why does he have to be _like_ this? He’s just so _bizarre_ , and Julian doesn’t understand why he has to be such an enigma.

“Did you want to?” Julian asks, changing tact but keeping his softly urgent murmur.

“You’re changing the terms of the argument, my dear.” What could Garak have done? Something Julian hadn’t seen, or something he _had_ seen and not understood… Understanding comes to him in a sudden flash, and Julian grins his victory. “What?” He keeps his eyes on Garak’s. His own are starting to hurt from the dryness, from not blinking.

Julian might not wish to be near the dabo tables, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to gamble.

He lunges forwards, puts his hand on the side of Garak’s neck, shifts himself forwards over the table, turns his head as he dips in—

And pauses with his mouth _nearly_ touching Garak’s own, but a few micrometres between them. Garak is stiff as a board, his eyes closed, his neck shifted imperceptibly into the grasp of Julian’s hand, and when his eyes open, Julian has never seen him look so _furious_.

“What is it you think you’re doing, Doctor Bashir?”

“The aim of the game is to make sure I’m the last one to blink, isn’t it?” Julian asks. “You blinked first, Garak.” He can smell the kanar lingering on Garak’s tongue, on his lips, can feel the cool, hard-ridged flesh under his left hand, can feel the edge of the table digging into his side – and it’s now that he remembers where he is. Quark is staring up at them from the bar with his mouth open and his eyes wide, unabashedly shocked by what he’s seen. “I thought it was just Cardassian fare, but it wasn’t, was it? He thought we were involved, because when he stood behind me, you got _territorial_. That’s what that staring contest was about.”

Garak isn’t leaning back, isn’t leaning away from him. He’s letting Julian touch his neck – and these ridges are deeply sensitive, Julian shows, and this is probably very improper in public, but there aren’t enough Cardassians here for anyone to know that.

Garak has the gall to smile, and Julian resists the urge to push him onto the ground – he’s never had very many violent urges before meeting Garak, but now they come and come and come.

“What do you know about a man called Gul Denor?” Julian asks. Garak’s smile drops like a piano from a skyscraper in one of the old cartoons.

“ _What_?”

“Only joking,” Julian says, and he kisses Garak’s mouth.

Julian has never kissed someone cold-blooded before, and the sensation is strange to say the least – Garak’s tongue is surprisingly dry when it touches against his own, and his lips part to allow Julian in before he changes the terms of the argument himself. The hand not wrapped about his kanar glass takes Julian by the front of his uniform, pulling him closer even though the table digs right into his side and it _hurts_ , and Julian gasps into Garak’s mouth as Garak drags one of those sharp teeth over his lower lip, almost drawing blood.

When he lets Julian go, Julian is dazed, feeling the flush in his cheeks, and Garak is studying him like a particularly interesting vase in an ancient museum.

“Gul Denor is coming on in age now,” Garak murmurs. “An empire man if ever there was one: he wishes for the return of Terok Nor to Cardassia, and the idea of destroying a traitor at the same time… Why, I can see how that might appeal to him.”

“I have to go to Sisko.”

“Now?” Garak says, almost plaintively. Julian pulls away from him, downs the last of his drink, and stumbles on the stairs as he makes his way down to the ground floor of Quark’s. Quark is grinning, and he tries to say something, but Julian is already walking right past him, and he all but sprints through the corridors towards Sisko’s office.


	4. This Work Abandoned

Don't panic! This work is indeed abandoned, but that's because I'm rewriting it. [The new version of Aronnax In The Abyss is right here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13627830)


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